“Hello, cap’n! Say, you old chump, where you been hidin’? I——”
Under Clem’s steady, scornful gaze, his words of greeting faded. His hand fell to his side. He stared in blank amazement, while a portentous silence fell upon the others.
Then Clem made a sudden movement and plucked the cigarette from Tom’s fingers. He tossed it into the corner.
“Tom,” he said quietly, “I hear that you claim to be filling my shoes. How about it?”
“Hey?” Tom Saunders laid aside his billiard cue, still staring. “What you mean?”
“You heard me!” snarled Clem, watching the other with grim intentness.
“Say, what’s eatin’ you?” demanded Tom, in frowning wonder. “Ain’t we allus been mighty good friends? What the devil are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talking about you,” said Clem, as he took a forward step. “Tom, you used to be a prince of a fellow. You’re some scrapping guy, too. Well, I been hearing a lot about you to-day. I hear, for one thing, that you’re doing a lot o’ talking about fillin’ Clem Frobisher’s shoes. I’m telling you right here that my shoes never left tracks in a saloon! Get that?”
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” said Tom, with a scowl, seeing beyond all doubt that his former hero was bent on trouble. “Do you want to start somethin’?”
“When I get ready. I’ll start it quick enough,” snapped Clem. “Ed Davis came over with me, and we’re going out in the Sadie to-night, Tom, on a three-days’ trip—maybe longer. I want you to come along.”